The third day of closed rehearsals.

Su Ran's voice was no longer the same as it had been three days ago.

After his breathing technique was corrected, his mid-to-low range sounded as if he had swapped out his vocal cords.

The high notes he used to squeeze out forcefully had, under Lu Zhixian's guidance, transformed into a falsetto mix with a sobbing quality; it wasn't showing off technique, it was speaking.

Speaking with his voice.

Curiously, though, Lu Zhixian hadn't let him hear the competition track yet. Every time Su Ran asked, he would say, "I'll let you hear it before recording. Master the basics first."

Su Ran's appetite had been whetted for three days. Though he didn't say it, his heart was beating like a funeral knell.

As the third day of rehearsal wound down, Lu Zhixian set aside his MIDI keyboard and beckoned Su Ran over.

"Come here, sit."

He opened his laptop and connected the studio monitors. On the screen was an audio file with a single-character name—Painting.

"The first round's competition track. It's unlike anything you've sung before. Listen to the demo first, then tell me how you feel."

Su Ran pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.

The sound of an acoustic guitar rang out.

Then, the melody emerged.

"Paint a moon for the lonely night sky."

"Paint me singing beneath that moon."

"Paint a large window for the desolate house..."

The melodic line was excessively simple, like a sketch, without any technical flourishes or turns.

Su Ran's back slowly drifted away from the backrest.

His breathing grew shallow. Not out of nervousness, but that feeling—as if something were stuck in his throat.

He couldn't quite say what was so good about the song.

Technically, there was nothing intimidating—no grand arrangement, no explosive chorus.

But he just felt—as if someone were singing out, line by line, everything he had swallowed and kept inside for three years.

The demo finished playing.

Su Ran sat there, motionless.

After a long while, he finally spoke, his voice muffled. "Teacher Lu... what's this song called?"

"Painting."

Lu Zhixian pulled up the lyrics and pushed them in front of Su Ran.

Su Ran looked down.

"The moon in that night sky is no longer bright."

"Only a melancholy child is singing."

He just stared at that last line on the screen for a long time.

Lu Zhixian didn't rush him.

"Teacher Lu." Su Ran's voice was very low, nearly drowned out by the hum of the air conditioner.

"This song... was it written for me?"

"Anyone could sing this song." Lu Zhixian leaned back in his chair.

"But it will sound best if you sing it."

He paused.

"Because you understand."

...

The subsequent rehearsals were completely different from before.

Lu Zhixian began to pick apart "Painting" line by line, but his method was unlike any vocal teacher's—he didn't talk about breath or placement; he talked about emotion first.

Su Ran didn't quite understand, but he did as he was told.

He sang it five times. On the sixth...

Lu Zhixian remained silent beside him.

But his fingers stopped tapping the desk.

...

On the afternoon before the official recording, the production team arranged an internal rehearsal for the eight groups to take turns on stage for blocking and sound checks.

Su Ran and Lu Zhixian's rehearsal was scheduled sixth.

In the backstage lounge, several monitor screens hung on the wall. Members of other groups gathered in small clusters, some drinking water, others chatting, their eyes occasionally glancing at the screens.

The moment Su Ran stepped onto the stage, Zhou Qiming was holding a thermos and drinking tea.

He glanced at the screen.

Then, he stopped midway through screwing on the thermos lid.

"He chose folk for Su Ran?"

An assistant nearby leaned in to watch for a few seconds.

"It is quite quiet... Singing folk on a stage like this?"

Zhou Qiming screwed the lid shut and shook his head.

"The biggest taboo in variety competitions is choosing niche tracks. Judges and audiences want explosiveness and stage impact. How can a quiet folk song compete against a large-scale rock arrangement? By hypnotizing them?"

Someone backstage couldn't help but let out a chuckle.

In the producers' small group chat, messages popped up one after another:

"Su Ran's group is definitely getting eliminated in the first round."

"Has Lu Zhixian gotten ahead of himself? Done too many film scores and forgotten how variety shows work?"

"Whatever, he's a newcomer. Consider it a tuition fee."

---

Su Ran was neither deaf nor blind.

After the rehearsal ended and he returned to the dressing room, he sat before the vanity mirror without saying a word.

But his hand kept spinning the microphone—he'd been doing it for nearly two minutes.

Finally, he couldn't hold back.

"Teacher Lu."

"Yeah."

"Are we... really going to sing this one?"

Lu Zhixian was leaning over the desk, adjusting the frequency parameters for the live audio, without even looking up.

Su Ran swallowed hard.

"The other groups are all doing big songs. Lin Feng's group is doing rock—four guitars, two basses, and a full brass section. For us to sing folk... isn't it too risky?"

Lu Zhixian's fingers stopped on the keyboard.

"In a war, do you think it's about who has the bigger gun, or who's the better shot?"

Su Ran opened his mouth but said nothing.

"Before you go on stage tomorrow, you only need to remember one thing." Lu Zhixian finally looked up at him.

"That song isn't for the judges or the audience; it's for yourself. If you sing until you cry, then the whole room is won. As for everything else, I've got your back."

Su Ran stopped spinning the microphone.

He clenched his fist and nodded.

...

That night, in Jingzhou.

Qin Haoran sat in the back seat of his car and made three phone calls.

"In the first round, Lin Feng's score must be the highest. As for Su Ran—don't let him pass the first round."

There was a pause on the other end.

"President Qin, I've heard Lu Zhixian has a lot of momentum lately. That business with 'under the starry sky'..."

"What's the use of momentum?" Qin Haoran rolled down the car window just a crack.

"Is his momentum enough to change the votes in our hands? He gave Su Ran a folk song; he's just cannon fodder in the first round. We don't even need to lift a finger."

He hung up and dialed the next one.

He said the same thing three times.

Three judges, located in three different cities, each hung up and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then, they went back to whatever they were doing.

...

Recording day.

Backstage at the studio, the eight partner pairs gradually gathered.

Su Ran wore a white shirt.

It was Lu Zhixian's suggestion—no extra styling, no earrings, no special hair, just a clean white shirt tucked into his trousers.

He stood before the mirror, looking at himself.

The door to the adjacent dressing room was open. Lin Feng emerged wearing a custom leather jacket, with every detail of his appearance screaming four words:

I am filthy rich.

He glanced at Su Ran, said nothing, and left.

In the waiting area, the twenty judges had already taken their places.

On the three "bought" seats sat three calm faces, indistinguishable from the other seventeen.

Su Ran was scheduled to perform third.

The first two groups' performances were mediocre, with the judges' scores being neither high nor low. The atmosphere backstage was relatively relaxed.

It was the third group's turn.

The host's voice came through the speakers.

"Our next pair of partners—singer Su Ran and music partner Lu Zhixian!"

A stir went through the audience.

The name "Lu Zhixian" now came with its own sound effects; the audience could imagine the background music without it even playing.

Su Ran stood in the wings holding the microphone, his palms covered in sweat.

The moment the song information appeared on the big screen, a low murmur rippled through both the audience and the judges' section.

"Painting" (Original)

Lyrics / Composition / Arrangement: Lu Zhixian

Folk?

And a total overhaul?

A pop idol's first competition performance, and he's singing folk?

In the front row of the judges' section, someone turned to whisper to the person next to them.

In the back row, a middle-aged man with thinning hair—one of the three Qin Haoran had bought—leaned back. His expression was hard to read, but it mostly said, "Well, that makes things easy."

Backstage in front of the monitor, Zhou Qiming held his tea but didn't drink.

He wanted to see how this young man intended to wage war on a variety stage with a folk song.

The stage lights dimmed.

The whole venue went silent.

A spotlight fell from the ceiling—a white beam hitting Su Ran.

A white shirt, a microphone, and nothing else.

The intro began.

It was a recording of an acoustic guitar played by Lu Zhixian himself, the sound flowing from the speakers.

Clean.

Quiet.

A kind of quiet that didn't belong on this stage.

Su Ran closed his eyes.

He opened his mouth.

"Paint a moon for the lonely night sky."

"Paint me singing beneath that moon."

"Paint a large window for the desolate house..."

When the first note came out—

In the front row of the judges' section, a veteran producer with thirty years in the music industry dropped his pen onto the desk with a clatter. He didn't pick it up; he just sat there, frozen.

That wasn't the Su Ran voice he remembered.

The voice was rich and warm, with just the right amount of raspiness. It wasn't piercing, wasn't showing off, and wasn't straining against itself.

It was like someone talking to themselves behind a window on a winter night, thinking no one was listening.

But everyone heard it.